Of Drinking and Personalities
by ifithasapulse
Summary: Lily Evans wished that James Potter would look at her, if only for a second, and register, if only on a subconscious level, that she existed. Warning: Very OOC


Lily Evans wished that James Potter would look at her, if only for a second, and register, if only on a subconscious level, that she existed.

It's late and dark and wet, the black velvet sky releasing such fury down upon Lily Evan's hooded head. It's raining to the point where Lily is fairly certain it should be classified somewhere between a national disaster and something that might need a news anchor to announce death tolls about.

Of course, that's just her being the silly melodramatic fourteen year old she knows herself to be. Besides, news anchors aren't talked about here at Hogwarts. She should know that by now and she knows that too.

The rain is coming down so thickly it's as though the air itself has been infused with mist and it does not make the thunderous, terrifying storm an iota less frightening.

Her eyes, almond shaped and beautiful, are rimmed in liquid black liner and her lashes are dusted with ebony and steel shadow that creates a fumbling teenager's attempt at a smoky eye. Her full lips are coated with glossy scarlet lipstick and under the relentless downpour, her makeup begins to fall apart.

So carefully constructed, so cautiously applied.

Lily's trying too hard and she knows it.

What she doesn't know is what in hell she is doing outside of James Potter's dormitory at midnight in the middle of a thunderstorm, wearing an amount of makeup that a prostitute in the nasty parts of London would say was too much, prepared to say exactly _what _when James stuck his head out the window to find out what-

"Evans?" James Potter's voice is smoky and raspy from sleep and even through the sound of the rain crashing onto his window pane it sends chills down her spine.

Lily lifts a drenched face, but whether it's soaked from rain or her tears is something she'll never find out. Mascara streaks down her pale cheekbones and her lipstick bleeds out of the lines Lily so meticulously lined as boundaries.

"Evans? Is that you? What are you doing outside my dormitory?"

It's three in the morning and its chaos all around them, shot glasses cluttering every flat surface and random articles of lacy lingerie littering the floor of the Gryffindor Common Room. The sort of lingerie Lily wishes she were brave enough to wear but, oh, well, she'll have to add that to the growing list of things she wishes she were brave enough to do.

Bodies are pressed flush against each other, sweat slick flesh grinding into a stranger's exposed skin, breath mingling, cigarette smoke hanging like a dark cloud over their heads. The walls ache with the thud of music as its pulse and dozens of scantily clad, utterly wasted teenagers are gyrating their bare hipbones to the beat and screaming out lyrics to songs they don't know.

Its oblivion and it's a wasteland of booze and slutty girls and drunken Quidditch players trying to cop a feel and damp skin and it's everything teenagers think they want but once they experience, can never turn back on.

It'll suck you in and then it'll suck your spine out while it's drinking your blood.

Everyone's shouting while trying to be heard over the thunderous roar of angry music and screaming guitar and already the faint sounds of people retching up their I-lost-count-a-long-time-ago drink are echoing from the bathrooms if their lucky enough to make it to a toilet by the time their stomach tosses up its mostly liquid contents.

Stupid teenagers and they're stupid parties destined to become stupid clubbers in their twenties and then thirties and before you know it, _poof_, there goes they're liver and there goes their kidney and then _bam, _they're done and gone and they will never get a second chance to not go to that stupid party.

And Lily knows she's being dramatic, but then again, she's breathing in the smoke from about a dozen different people's cigarettes so she thinks she's earned the damn right.

And she doesn't want to drink but James Potter and Sirius Black are watching her from across the room and she doesn't want them to laugh at her more than she doesn't want to lose her sanity.

So she does a shot and it burns her throat like acid.

It's three in the morning and Lily is freezing her butt off while waiting for James Potter to get out of the bath tub in the Prefects bathroom. Sure, she's got a towel wrapped around her upper body and she's wearing sandals but the fact that James Potter is about ten feet away, naked, in a tub full of scented, soapy water…well, let's just say that there have been very few more uncomfortable moments in Lily Evan's fangirl life.

He's taking his time getting out of the tub and Lily wants to tell him off, tell him that Remus Lupin is the only one in Gryffindor supposed to be using the bathroom aside from herself but one look at James Potter's perfectly sculpted abs, toned from years of Quidditch, one glance at his slick black hair tells her that no matter what she says, he won't listen to her.

Lily Evans is simply not on James Potter's level.

It's nearly lunch and the bell is mere minutes away from ringing and as Professor McGonagall goes on and on about Transfiguring rabbits into hares, Lily's hand takes page upon page of notes while her eyes linger subconsciously on James Potter's profile.

He doesn't mean to hurt her, she knew, but every time he doesn't notice her watching him, every time he walks past her like she is literally nonexistent, he might as well have punched a hole right through her chest and through her innocent, desperate heart.

His friends are carelessly composed and impossibly elite and James Potter is the ringleader with his looks and Quidditch and jokes and intellect…

She wants nothing more than for him to acknowledge her just once. Lily slumps a little in her seat and stifles a yawn as James tilts his chair on one leg to talk to Sirius and they have a brief exchange through flashing eyes and gesticulating hands in that coded language that is best friend.

Lily doesn't have a clue what it's about, but just like every single time James Potter talks to bloody _anyone_, she wishes it were about her.

James Potter's eyes scan the room and its only when they pause on her bare midriff that she realizes her shirt has ridden up when she slumped, revealing a pale sliver of milky skin. She holds his gaze for a few mind blowing seconds and in an outrageous burst of adrenaline and impulse, Lily leans forward him and murmurs, "Like what you see, Potter?"

His hazel eyes glitter with disbelief and intrigue and he leans forward too, his lips moving in what is undoubtedly some sexual comment that Lily can't hear over the roaring of blood and triumph in her ears.

Lily Evans cannot believe that after years and years of lusting and dreaming and wishing and hoping and praying, James Potter simply was captivated by her personality.

Not her makeup or drinking or any of that rubbish. Turns out, James Potter knows plenty of girls who wear makeup and drink.

But he only knows one Lily Evans and he loves her personality.

And all she ever had to do to get his attention was stick out her hand and say, "Hey, I'm Lily Evans."

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**A/N: Moral of the story, don't drink to impress someone. If they're worth your time, they'll like you for you. The end. Please leave a review if you liked the story and even if you didn't, I would really appreciate some constructive criticism. Thank you.**


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